


Sinking

by tinknevertalks



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol dulls the pain, Angst, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e06 The King of the Delta Blues, Garcy friendship, Gen, That vodka bottle, doing the right thing hurts, post Lyatt breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 20:03:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14600652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinknevertalks/pseuds/tinknevertalks
Summary: Drinking alone isn't bad when you have company.





	Sinking

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into Timeless fanfic (and I'm blaming it on DownToTheSea), so I've probs not tagged this very well. Unbeta'd, so if there's problems with tenses that's why. But I hope you enjoy this snapshot of Lucy's mind.
> 
> (I'm in the UK, literally just caught up with what E4 is showing after marathoning season 1 last week on Netflix, so yeah...)

They don’t talk. Lucy’s trying very hard just to keep her heart beating as it breaks, so words aren’t really a thing she can deal with right now.

‘ _One problem at a time,_ ’ she hears, in Wyatt’s voice, echoing around her head. His boyish grin is a darkening phantom in her thoughts, circling around and around as his voice permeates her mind. With a bit more force than was probably needed, she unscrews the bottle, burning away his echo with each glug of vodka.

Still, her and Flynn? They don’t talk. Not tonight.

It’s like the night they sat and watched a movie. Silent, except for the clink of beers, the scenes on the screen, and his breathing. Calm, quiet, unassuming. Maybe that’s why she knocked on his door this evening, knowing he would open it, would understand, would let her sink without letting her drown.

Except, unlike the sofa, there’s room here. Room to move, to lounge, to be. She sits at the end of one bed, cross legged and miserable, Flynn opposite her on the other, back against what would be the headboard, reading a book (and maybe watching her - she can’t tell). It’s not her journal - she still hasn’t quite got her mind around that one, although time is suddenly a whole lot less linear and a whole lot more like tangled wires since her first trip back - but a novel, by the look of the dust jacket. She can’t see the title and won’t ask what it is (she will one day; right now she doesn’t care enough). She just sits back and lets the night march on as the vodka dulls everything.

Maybe tomorrow it won’t hurt so much.


End file.
